


Cold Call

by Nightdog_Barks



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-03
Updated: 2006-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-18 03:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdog_Barks/pseuds/Nightdog_Barks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House makes some phone calls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Call

**Author's Note:**

> For those who may not be familiar with the term, a "cold call" is what a salesperson does when s/he calls a complete stranger.

  
**STATUS:** xposted to [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/house_wilson/profile)[**house_wilson**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/house_wilson/)  
 **TITLE:** Cold Call  
 **AUTHOR:** [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/nightdog_writes/profile)[**nightdog_writes**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/nightdog_writes/)  
 **PAIRING:** House/Wilson  
 **RATING:** PG-13  
 **WARNING:** There is a major character death, but it's already occurred and is eight months in the past in the fic.  
 **SUMMARY:** House makes some phone calls.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **AUTHOR NOTES:** For those who may not be familiar with the term, a "cold call" is what a salesperson does when s/he calls a complete stranger.  
This can be read as a oneshot, or as the alternate, much darker ending to my fic _Standoff._  
 **BETA: Silverjackal,** who knew exactly what House _wouldn't_ say.

  


  
 **Cold Call**

  
 _Eight months,_ House thinks. _Eight months since Jimmy died. You'd think I'd be getting over it by now. Used to it. Whatever._ He shifts restlessly on the bed, glancing at the illuminated numbers of the clock on the nightstand.

 _Four-fucking-thirty. Great._

Turning over, trying to ease the constant dull ache in his leg, he thinks again about the last minutes of James Wilson's life. He'd spent them bleeding to death on the floor of a convenience store four blocks away, trapped in a botched screwup of an armed robbery that had left no survivors.

House had sent him there, running a needless errand in his last-ever game of _Push Jimmy's Buttons._

He thinks of this every night, and lately the thoughts have brought with them a strange impulse.

Reaching for the cordless phone next to the bed, he turns it on and punches in a series of numbers.

Four rings before it's answered.

"I have to tell you something," House says, and there's a muffled noise from the other end, a female voice. "No! Don't hang up!" He waits, cautiously. Silence on the line, but no dial tone, and House relaxes just a tiny bit.

"I loved him," he says. "I kept telling myself to tell _him,_ but I never did, and now it's too late. It's too fucking late."

The silent listener waits.

"I have to tell everyone now," House says. "He was my best friend and I loved him, and I have to tell _somebody_ because if I don't it'll be like it never existed. Like _he_ never existed."

The stranger on the other end gives a slight cough.

"I'm sorry," House whispers. It's not clear, even to himself, who he's apologizing to or for what. "Goodbye."

Before he breaks the connection, he looks at the number he's dialed.

A 406 area code. A woman in Montana now knows his secret. Last night it had been 501 -- a young man in Arkansas, and the night before that 620; a kid somewhere in Kansas. Sometimes he punches in a lot of numbers and ends up in Japan, France, Poland. Once he'd gotten Australia, and had almost laughed at the cosmic joke of hearing an accent like Chase's at the other end of the line.

No matter. The ghosts on the other end _listen,_ and that's what's important. The only thing that's important, these days.

Clicking off the phone, he replaces it in it's cradle. It's the one he has to use; his cellphone bills go directly to the hospital and he can't let Cuddy find out what he's doing. She'd insist on therapy. Counseling. He doesn't need it; of this he's convinced himself. _This_ is his therapy.

He crosses his arms behind his head and closes his eyes.

He wonders who'll pick up the phone tomorrow night.

-fin


End file.
